I am the dusty ground, low and dry
thirsty for the imprint of holy feet.
Despoil with radiant prints, this virgin ground.
You are the rain, falling deftly
upon my brown soil. Now is left
your footprint on this ground.
I am the ashen leaves, curling and broken
awaiting but a whisper. For only then
can I fall on solid ground.
You are the soundless wind, howling, still.
You creep up behind me and
exhale me to the ground.
I am the snow, disembodied worlds of cold
and chance encounters with hand, or tongue,
eye-lash or palm needing ground.
You are the frozen air in which I am held
aloft, drawn slowly down
to meet with others on the frozen ground.
I am the waning autumn death
soon to give way to the long silence-when one Voice
becomes the loudest ground.
You are the Voice that speaks
heard best in dying, power given for
rising from this shivering ground.
I am the distant hours, the midnight passing-
the refusing minutes, trapped in hours,
running from the years of ancient ground.
You are the many, and the one, and all time
and nothing and everything from nothing
where time has no ground.
I am the weeping, the squalid groaning,
the unrequited miseries of misery’s company
laying crippled and diffused in the ground.
You are the end of tears and years, the question
and the answer, the sutured nerve of joy, not suggested
but present, here, on this Holy Ground.